


One Plus One Equals Three

by ladypredator



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Inside Irene's Head, M/M, Multi, POV Female Character, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-22
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 08:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypredator/pseuds/ladypredator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene Adler's thoughts regarding Sherlock and John. Spoilers for 2x01. Warning for sexual imagery primarily S/J .</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Plus One Equals Three

She'd never have Sherlock's sheer genius at observing the details, the minutiae, of someone's life in a single glance, but Irene Adler had meticulously trained herself to be the expert at reading their intimate needs; most particularly, those intimate needs they tried to hide from the rest of world, even from themselves. So it was an inanely simple matter to see the truth of the present situation.

She could never have Sherlock Holmes without John Watson.

No one ever would. The men were two halves of a symbiotic whole. They fed off each other. They completed each other. It didn't matter whether either man would ever admit that, or act on it, or… anything. The connection was just there.

Which is one of the reasons why she semi-abducted John and reminded him, post-exchanged announcements of opposing sexual orientations, 'look at us both.' And it was in that raw, honest instant of mutual ... understanding?... helplessness?...acceptance?... that she first truly paid attention to the apparently nondescript man in front of her.

Afterwards she found herself wondering about the why and the how of it: who was John Watson that he would be the missing puzzle piece that completed the brilliant and fascinating Sherlock Holmes?

So she began to study John instead of passing him by as an accoutrement to the focus of her interest. Military service was written into his skin and bones, but she'd dealt with more than her share of military men. Most of them were pathetic creatures; their bravery was only found with a gun in their hands and they were submissive mincemeat in the bedroom. Could John be the rare, real thing – a truly courageous soldier who would give his life for others without needing medals or accolades? She wasn't even sure such a being existed.

Yet Sherlock relied on him. Sherlock was always watching for cues from John. John was always running after Sherlock. Oh yes, now there was something she recognized. John was every bit as much of an adrenaline junky as his partner. He lived for the chase, for Sherlock's game. That was a need he couldn't hide. Even when he was arguing with Sherlock about the detective's callousness regarding the victims, the human carnage that fell along their way, he never once failed to run straight into danger in Sherlock's wake. In fact, John calmed under stress; that was when he was at his best.

Perhaps that was it. Sherlock had found someone who could cope with his lifestyle. No – adrenaline junkies weren't that hard to find. She was one herself.

Chemistry perhaps? The men were in love with each other; she knew that just as she knew John would probably deny it to his dying day and Sherlock would never admit to something as ordinary or boring as having an emotion, much less caring for another person. Emotional denial was another thing she was an expert at identifying and these two were steeped to the gills in it.

But no, again, it was more than that. Those two could have a platonic relationship for life and it would still be the most powerful connection she'd ever seen between two separate people. Irene was no romantic, but the intensity of the mutual electricity she'd sensed when John first wandered into her sitting room, bowl and bandages held awkwardly in his hands, almost literally shocked her.

So the only real question she had to answer for herself was whether she could take the one with the other. She knew that she desired Sherlock. This whole scheme had been set up by her in the first place, whatever that psycho Moriarty might think, solely to force Sherlock Holmes to notice her. She'd been successful in that, though not as thoroughly as she would've liked. That only made her want him more; it was an affront to her pride that any man – or woman - could resist her if she put her mind and body to work at seducing them. Also, damn him, the man was nearly irresistible. If she could've bottled him and sold the resulting aphrodisiac to her clients, she'd be even richer than she planned on becoming.

So she simply had to have to Sherlock. She would taste, touch, devour every inch of that man if it was the last thing she did, and it might well be.

There were worse ways to go.

And that meant taking John Watson right along for the ride. No way around it.

Ah well… while she truly preferred women as non-professional sexual partners, envisioning John's compact, muscular form entwined with both Sherlock's long limbs and her own was not unpleasant. In fact the thought made her skin tingle. Imagine conducting the lightning bolt of that circuit through her own body - she shivered with delight. Normally, she was in the business of creating and satisfying fantasies for other people, but this - this was one she could treasure for herself.

Let the quietly commanding soldier be dominant. His passion for his partner was nearly combustible as it was, despite that rigid self-control. Sherlock - oh Sherlock - with those cutting cheekbones and white skin, ebony curls, and graceful long limbs - how beautiful a submissive he'd make.

She could do incredible art with him. Stretch him out on black silk sheets, confine that manic energy, just enough, until it broke into passion's sweat and trembled with need. Place the fair-haired, boyish, sweet John over him. Smaller in frame, but with broader shoulders, such steady hands, a surgeon's hands, so precise in their motions. If she could direct those hands on Sherlock's elegant body...

And oh, did John have scars? Wounds from the war? The rawness of livid damage sliding against Sherlock's pale perfection. What a contrast that would make!

Yes, yes, she could and would do this. She must do this.

Besides, even just breaking a hole through that ridiculous wall of denial between them would be far, far too amusing to pass up.

Oh yes, this was going to be fun…


End file.
